If the Fates Allow
by terriblemuriel
Summary: You've been coming here with the Pierces for years to pick out their Christmas tree. It's an annual family ritual. Before, you just came along for the ride and hot cider, but this year you're part of the family, this year you get to vote on the tree.


**A/N: This was written for the Brittana U Christmas Project on Tumblr. A companion piece, from Brittany's point-of-view, was written by Lingering Lilies, please read it as well. Enjoy, and have yourself a Merry Little Christmas!**

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><p>You stare out the frosted window of the Pierce-mobile as it pulls up in front of <em>Big Bob's Magical Christmas Tree Wonderland<em>. The garishly decorated Christmas tree lot sits adjacent to Big Bob's ancient and peeling red barn, in front of Big Bob's more ancient farm house, where ancient Big Bob himself will no doubt be dressed as Santa just like last year. And the year before that. And the year before that.

You've been coming here with the Pierces for years to pick out their Christmas tree. It's always the same day every year, always a tree that they all have to agree upon; it's a family ritual. Before, you just came along for the ride and hot cider, but this is the first year that you get a vote. The thought of actually _choosing_ the Pierce family Christmas tree makes your gut clench and your throat close up; but for very different reasons.

If anything, it looks like Big Bob has even more decorations out than last year. Looped strings of colored lights stretch across the entrance and the canopy that covers the wreaths and snacks and Big Bob himself, who does double duty selling trees and granting Christmas wishes all while enthroned in his enormous "Old Saint Nick" chair. The flashing lights reflect off of the condensation on the car windows, and suddenly it's like being inside a disco. A Christmas disco. Inside a mini van. With your girlfriend and her family.

_Your girlfriend._

You swallow hard. The word, after all this time and everything you've gone through to get her(e), still gives you pause.

As the van crunches to a stop, Brittany squeezes your hand and you turn away from the window to catch her eye. Dizzying, water-colored lights reflect off of her outline, you see the glint of a multicolored smile and you return it. There's an instant friction between you. Reaching forward, you pull her fuzzy deerstalker hat down around her ears. As gestures go, it's sweet, but it's a substitute. Because what you really want to do is pull her into you so tight that your bodies melt together; skin to skin, and bone to bone.

You're suddenly very conscious of Britt's mom and dad in the front seat and her sister in the seat behind you.

You boop her nose instead and her grin widens at the same time that her eyelashes fall to grace her pale cheeks.

_God, you love her._

You want to tell her how you feel. What it means to you to be here with her. With her family. On their annual family Christmas tree mission. You inhale, steeling your thoughts with a breath, but before you can utter a word, she's opening the door and pulling you out of the van and skip-hopping toward the entrance as she babbles about hats.

"_We've_ got to find the tree this year, Santana," Brittany says to you over her shoulder. "We can't let my sister win again."

She's pulling you toward the trees before the rest of the Pierces can even get out of the van. You hear an angry yell from her sister to wait up as she trots behind you, but Brittany's determined smile tells you that she's going to be the one to pick the tree this year. She grips your elbow and tugs you, stumbling, into her side for a quick, one-armed hug. You can't help but be charmed by her enthusiasm. You look into her glowing face and you want to kiss her so bad, but you can't. Not here. Instead you take her gloved hand in yours, grip tightly, and follow her lead.

You enter the _Big Bob's Magical Christmas Tree Wonderland_ hand in hand with Brittany. You have a family ritual to partake in.

As you enter the erstwhile forest, the smell of pine floods your senses, and you are unwillingly carried back to last year's visit. Sure, you'd accompanied the Pierces on their annual tree pilgrimage out of a sense of duty, but last year was no fun at all. You walked through the lot, hands clenched in your pockets-fingernails digging half-moons into your palms-bitter and glum, as Artie rolled along beside you, ruining every ounce of your holiday cheer with his presence. You both watched Brittany as she danced and twirled among the trees, picking out one perfect tree after another, and you couldn't help the sad smile that came over you; Brittany's whimsy tugging at your grinch-sized heart. For about the millionth time you scowled at Artie and envied him for having what you lacked; Brittany, and the courage to go after what he wanted.

For about the millionth time, you wished like hell you'd never said no to her duet idea.

_Thank god this is year is different_.

You grip Brittany's hand tighter as you stroll amongst the trees. She responds with a sidelong glancing smile before she points out yet another "perfect" tree and pulls you over to check it out. She asks you with her gaze if you approve, and when you squint and wrinkle your nose, she moves on to the next row of trees.

Brittany doesn't let go of your hand.

It's not unlike the first time you accompanied the Pierces on their annual tree-hunt. You were twelve, and the wounds of your parents' divorce were still so fresh and raw you could barely contain your tears as you followed Britt's mom and dad through the tree lot. Toddler Ashley had wandered off and gotten lost that year, and you all scattered, desperate in your search to retrieve her. In those moments, alone in the forest of trees, frightened for the safety of this child who might as well be _your_ little sister, you forgot your troubles. You forgot your mother's tears. You forgot the hard, mean set of your father's mouth every time he stormed out the door. You forgot the sad, artificial tree that graced the even sadder house you'd moved into with your mom. You forgot that you even had parents for just those few minutes. And it felt like such a relief.

When you found Ashley, curled up in the straw pile behind the barn eating a candy cane, you secured a return trip to every Pierce family Christmas tree-hunt "for eternity," Brittany said. "Or as long as there are trees at Christmas."

Mrs. Pierce cried happy tears into your hair as she held a squirming, crying Ashley, and Mr. Pierce actually lifted you up and squeezed you so hard in his bear-like arms you couldn't breathe-despite probably being too big for that kind of thing, you actually really liked it-and best of all, Brittany held your hand that night-so tightly that it ached when you got home-not letting go until the end of the night when you climbed out of the Pierce-mobile and walked back to your rundown rental in Lima Heights.

Thus began your 'years-of-alternating-Christmases', and you know, somewhere deep down-maybe so deep that you don't ever want to say it out loud-that if it weren't for this little road trip every year, with Britt's family, to pick out a Christmas tree, you probably wouldn't ever have any holiday cheer at all.

Yeah, you're not sure you'll ever admit it, but you're pretty grateful for them.

Because it's not just the tree-although it smells so good in the Pierce's living room-it's them. It's these four slightly daffy, always fun-loving blondes who have welcomed you into their lives-and one in particular, who welcomed you into her arms and her bed-that finally make you feel like you belong somewhere.

Like you are loved.

You hands work themselves up to grip Brittany's whole arm, and you sink into her side, cheek against her shoulder, your slightly shorter legs stretching to match her eager stride. Since you've graduated from pinkies, it's like you can never seem to get enough of touching her.

Christmas music plays from the tinny lot speakers as you and Brittany delve deeper amongst the trees. You hum along, grinning to yourself when Brittany hears you and joins in, until you both break into song in unison: _In the meadow we can build a snowman, and pretend that he is parson Brown..._

You stop, pretending you've forgotten the words, but really you're afraid to say them out loud lest you jinx them. Well, afraid to say one word. _Married_. But Brittany carries on, breaking your grip to pirouette, twice, while belting out the rest of the lyric: _He'll say are you married? We'll say no, man! But you can do the job why you're in town..._ Her voice trails off and she curtsies, gracefully, before dancing off down the aisle, pointing at yet another "perfect" tree and calling you to join her.

If you could be any more won over by this girl you would be. But as it is, she already owns you; body, mind, and soul, right down to your every cell, and in that moment there is only one thought on your mind.

_I'm going to marry her someday._

You grin to yourself, nervous excitement etching itself into your fibers at the thought of spending the rest of your life with Brittany, and you follow her down yet another row of trees. You'd follow her anywhere really, to the ends of the Earth even, and you wonder for a second if she knows that, before you catch up to her and take her hand. She smiles back at you, giddy at your unabashed and new-found bravery in public.

You've wandered far from the entrance, it's darker around the perimeter of the lot and the trees are bigger, and shelter you from the noise and bustle of the busy tree lot. You realize you and Brittany are alone.

Brittany slows your pace as _Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas_ plays over the loudspeakers. She can't resist singing along to _Make the yuletide gay _and nudges you with her shoulder to make sure you got the joke. You roll your eyes at her to show her that she's ridiculous, but you can't help but smile at her too, and as you curl your arm around her, pulling her flush against you, you realize that the thing you want most in the world right now is to kiss Brittany. You want to kiss her right here in this Christmas tree lot, with all these trees as your witness; you want to gather _your girlfriend_ in your arms and kiss her like you've never kissed her before.

(You've done it so many times before it should be rote by now, but it's not. Every time is as new and exciting as the first. And after all, this is your first kiss at _Big Bob's Magical Christmas Tree Wonderland_, so it counts as new.)

Edging into the thickest Noble fir you can find, you catch Brittany's hand and pull her toward you. Her coy smile finds yours and you know that she knows exactly what's on your mind. Her eyes, glinting with mischief, find first your eyes and then move to your lips, until she's staring at them so hard they begin to tingle.

She'd traced circles on your knee the whole car ride here and, despite the many layers that separated her fingers from it; your skin is still abuzz with her touch. You suddenly wish you didn't have so much clothing on. You pull her against you, locking your hands behind her back, settling a thigh between her legs, and meet her gaze. It's hard, her pupils full and dark. You let your eyes drop, first to her cold-flushed cheeks, then to her lips, plump and red. Your tongue swipes your own lip before you swallow and, standing on tiptoe, lean in and capture her lips against yours.

As your mouth melts into hers, she slips her tongue into your mouth, grazing just the tip your tongue and sending a jolt of electricity between your legs. And god, you feel so alive! Brittany hums into your mouth and you double your grip against her back, pulling her as tight as you can against your chest, your breasts pressing together, your suddenly sharp nipples straining against the many layers that separate your fiery skin from hers. She tightens her own grip, straddling the thigh you've placed between her legs with an indecent need, and edging her fingers under your coat, she grips the bare, now cold, skin of your waist with her gloved fingers. You close your eyes and revel in her touch, in the warm, citrus scent of her shampoo that wafts over you, in her slightly sweet, slightly sour taste, in the hum of her desire as it echoes in your own throat, in the earthy, rich scent of _her_ that, despite the many layers, seems to drift straight through to your very core. You feel a rush of warmth flood your panties as your every sense pulls Brittany into you.

Without conscious effort, your hips grind against Brittany's and her hips instinctively respond. Her kisses move along your jawline, until her sneaky mouth finds the tender spot just below your ear that always drives you wild. She nips it with her teeth before she hisses _Santana_ into your ear and then, pushing your scarf aside with her nose, works her lips down the sensitive meridian of nerves that line your neck.

Her whisper undoes you. You throw your head back and open yourself to her. A breathy moan escapes you, your muscles loosen, and you're melting into her touch as if there were nothing between you at all. Her hand snakes a tentative path along your stomach and you shiver, a spark shooting from her hand to your core. You're entwined as tightly as possible in a forest of Christmas trees when you hear it.

"HEY!"

You pull yourself, reluctantly, away from Brittany. The flush on your face is not the embarrassment you usually feel when caught by the strangely psychic Ashley, but the heat of a moment that you are already longing to return to. You glance toward the noise and see Brittany's little sister skipping toward you.

"OHMYGOD," she yells, her breath a puffy cloud that you hope obscures her vision of just exactly what you and Britt are doing. "You found it! The perfect tree!" You look behind you, where she is pointing, and sure enough, the large Noble fir that you employed as a backdrop for your impromptu make-out session _is_ the perfect tree. It's large and lush and soft and perfectly proportioned; the verdant embodiment of all things Christmas.

"Santana found it," Brittany says, taking your hand and pulling you back into her side. "She gets the credit this year." She kisses you on the forehead and your face flames all over again.

Ashley rolls her eyes at you in a way that you know no one in her own family taught her, and you drop your animosity for a fraction of a second as pride surges through you.

"You guys are gross," she says, before turning and skipping back down the row of trees and yelling, "Mo-om! Sanny found the perfect tree!"

You grin up at Brittany, punch-drunk with a mixture of love, lust and embarrassment, and she grins back at you, your exact cheesy smile reflected on her face.

"C'mon."

She puts her arms around your shoulders and you place yours around her waist and the lyrics of the carol echo in your head: _From now on, our troubles will be out of sight._ You grip her tightly as a wave of stark, unadulterated joy overtakes you.

In this moment, right here and right now, you don't think you've ever been happier in your whole life.

You sigh and wipe the single tear that runs down your cheek on Brittany's shoulder.

_It's all just too much, this allowing yourself to have feelings._

Brittany holds you there, content as a cat in her arms, until Ashley reappears, Brittany's mom and dad behind her, holding hands as sweetly as any teen-aged couple, with Big Bob bringing up the rear to fetch the tree. You don't even care that they all see you wrapped in Brittany's arms, you don't pull away.

Britt's mom smiles at you both when she sees the tree and says, "It's perfect! How did you find it?" But before you can respond that you didn't, Brittany tilts her head toward you with a look that softens your heart.

Her mom takes her little sister's hand and walks away while her dad and Big Bob wrangle the tree toward the car. In seconds you're alone again and Brittany leans down and whispers in your ear, "I don't have to look for the perfect thing, it finds me when I'm not looking."

You can't speak, your throat is locked and tears are threatening. You squeeze her again (as if you could you hold on any tighter) and press your face into her shoulder, allowing yourself to curl against her chest. A single sob escapes.

Brittany folds you into her body and hums into the top of your head.

"Mm hmm."

She gets it.

In time, you lead Brittany by the hand out of the Christmas tree forest and over to the snack table where you pull out a dollar and buy you both cups of Brittany's favorite cider from Mrs. Claus, also know as Big Bob's wife. There's something about the crystals in the bottom that Brittany just adores, and which, try as you might, can't be recreated in any other cup of cider. You even asked Mrs. Big Bob how she does it once, but she just winked and said it was elfen magic.

Magic cider in hand, you wander back to the entrance to find Ashley sitting in Big Bob's lap going over her lengthy Christmas list, which she printed this year so as not to forget a single item. As you listen to her rattle off her demands, you drink your cider, savoring the tartness of the apple and cinnamon, and letting the warm steam spread across your lips, nose and cheeks. Brittany finishes first, and just to see that crazy-kid-happy grin on her face, you pass her your cup as well and watch her eyes light up when she sees the bottom is covered in cider crystal slush. She tips it up, tapping the bottom of the cup to get every last sugary crystal into her mouth, and then, after running her tongue over her tart lips with a smack, leans down and gives you a sneaky, cidery kiss of thanks.

You fold yourself into Brittany's side and she wraps her arms around you, pulling you snugly against her chest with a sigh. You can smell the cider on her breath and feel the steady beating of her heart against your cheek. Next to you, Mr. and Mrs. Pierce, are similarly posed, arm in arm, as they watch Ashley on Santa's lap with the kind of content and joy you wonder if you'll some day have.

You close your eyes and let your mind go. You almost don't dare to dream it, but maybe, just maybe, some day in the future you will bring _your_ daughter to _Big Bob's Magical Christmas Tree Wonderland_. You and Brittany will stroll amongst the trees, hand in hand, while she skips ahead, finding each tree as perfect as her mother once did. Then she'll sit in Big Bob's lap (because that guy will never age) and reel off a list of "bawbies and yegos and pwincess costumes" you've already bought and wrapped and hidden in your closet for Christmas morning. Then, she'll point at you and say in a hushed voice, "and Santa, will you pwease bwing my baby bwother a pink twicycle? Mama says he's been weally good this year." You'll place your hand on your distended belly and laugh because there's already a pink tricycle just waiting to be assembled in the garage. Brittany will squeeze your hand and you'll share a cup of Big Bob's perfect cider and you'll let her finish the sugary crystals at the bottom. And maybe, just maybe, that same feeling of joy will revisit you, overtake you, and you'll melt into Brittany's side and she'll envelope you in her arms and whisper that even after all these years you're still perfect to her.

And it will be a perfect moment.

Just like this one.


End file.
